a case for the late night joy junkies
by voxwillynilly
Summary: a series of drabbles around 1,000 words about the usual suspects.
1. i've got lips, and you've got lips

look, i'm just saying  
i've got lips, and you've got lips,  
and I don't believe in magic,  
but we own every one of those stars shimmying in the sky tonight  
 **thuli zuma**

* * *

They are being watched. They both know this as they settle down beside the fire to begin the arduous task of removing their armor, a habit borne of weary weeks, months spent on the road. Sometimes they speak. Sometimes they don't. On this particularly _blessed_ occasion, they are both silent, but they are both well aware that all eyes are on them. Why would they not be? Yes, everyone in camp is watching the traitor Teryn, and the Grey Warden he has spent the last year trying to kill. The Orlesian bard, at least, has the decency to pretend to be doing something worthwhile.

"He's watching us," she says softly, so softly he almost does not hear her. He snorts, lips curled back in sneer she finds entirely unbecoming on one of Ferelden's most eligible bachelors. She's right, of course. Somewhere in this hive, there's a royal carriage, and a pair of wounded green eyes stares out at them. this could be (was) you, you daft boy, Loghain thinks, but, alas, those Theirins, and their damnable honor.

"They all are," he responds just as quietly, deft hands making quick work of her heavy buckles, and clumsy straps.

"Oh," and it's such a quiet noise he isn't certain he's heard that, either. "I didn't realize..."

"No, you wouldn't," he states simply, rolling his shoulders as she relieves him of his breastplate. She hums thoughtfully in response as she holds the rather cumbersome piece up, and regards it intently in the fading light before setting it down gently. He doesn't know what precisely she's looking for, or why she'd bother looking for it in his armor of all the damned places. He doubts she found anything worthwhile.

"I hate it now, you know. That bloody armor, and everything it stands for," he confesses as his fingers brush across her pale décolletage, and she shivers in response. He wonders, then, against his better judgement, when the last time she was touched, and by whom. he finds himself inexplicably jealous of whatever ignorant lout was granted such a... well, whatever it is. honor? privilege? mercy? He doesn't want to think about her in the throes of ecstatic passion with another man, or woman, or whatever suits her fancy. He is, anyway, though, wonders if the rest of her is as soft as this particular segment of flushed flesh. His hand has tarried too long, but she doesn't brush him off. Rather, she presses into his palm with fervor, which is a rather unexpected development, but he can feel the tops of her breasts through her under-armor, shifts to avoid pressing her with his growing hardness.

She inhales sharply, shifts her own focus with a monumental amount of self-control he himself finds impressive, and sadly lacks. She begins inspecting her longsword with the same sort of consideration she just showed his armor. "S'you know this blade, General? This, ser, is the Cousland family blade. This is the sword Sarim Cousland used while in service to Bann Elstan. This is the blade that Haelia Cousland bore during the Black Age when werewolves ravaged her land, and its people. This is the blade Elethea Cousland wielded against Calenhad, and, when Sophia Dryden mounted her rebellion,this is the blade the Teryn of Highever used against King Arland. When Orlesians were putting our people to the sword, is the blade my grandfather, my father wielded, and d'you know what I did with it? I ran Howe through with it, and d'you want to know what I intend to do with it? I bloody well intend to do the same to that thrice-damned Archdemon, and, by Andraste's flaming sword, if this blighted relic doesn't get put on display in the main hall of the Royal Palace, I'll haunt everyone involved with this whole sordid affair."

He laughs, then, uncontrollably, and inexplicably, and she can feel its rumble through her body, scoots closer to him despite her own reservations. "So, you are Bryce's get, after all."

she arches a slender, dark eyebrow in his direction. "You had your doubts?"

"No," he responds after a moment of quiet consideration. "Though, be pleased you look like your mother, madame."

"She never spoke of it." She pauses, eyes downcast. "The rebellion, I mean. She never spoke of it. Not even once. Oh, she used to get so cross with Father when she'd catch him telling us stories about it. You'll put ideas in their heads, she'd say. Can't have out children thinking for themselves now, can we? It didn't, you know, put ideas in our heads. I didn't want this. This just happened while I wasn't looking, and I'm bloody terrified of failing, and I can't turn back now."

"I know," he says, and he does, he really does, and, Maker have mercy on him, because her face is so close to his, and he does not think he will survive this moment if stretches itself out any farther, and he can feel her heart putting in some hard miles inside her chest, and her lips are so soft when they meet his. Her mouth, a slippery wetness he does not bother to ask if he may enter. Barges through with tongue, and teeth, and fingertips, will swear on everything he hears her mewl in the back of her throat as she brings her hands up to hold the base of his skull. i could have married you. It's a strange thought, the way it flutters across his mind as they separate abruptly, and he wants to tell her this, doesn't know why, but it will slip off the tip of his tongue, and fall into letter he will write in nine months, two weeks, and four days from this very moment. But, for now, they simply stare at one another.

"Thank you, General, for your assistance," and she is all shyness now, will not meet his unflinching gaze as she hurries onto whatever new task she has so suddenly set for herself.


	2. and now you are and i am

_and now you are and i am now and we're_  
 _a mystery which will never happen again,_  
 _a miracle which has never happened before–_  
 _and shining this our now must come to then_  
ee cummings

* * *

This isn't a moment he's supposed to be witnessing. None of them are, in fact. It's just supposed to be Thedas' finest, but, well, half the Inquisition is here like they've all got nothing better to do this afternoon than mill about Herald's Rest. And the Warden ( _elissa that's her name where'd that witch go weren't they friends or something during the blight?_ ) brought, well, twelve of her people ( _the hero of fuckin' dane_ , he thinks as he eyes Loghain Mac Tir, with whom the Warden is playfully knocking elbows), and, honestly, Garrett always has someone trying to crawl up his ass, and out his mouth. Of course, that big, dumb ox staggered in during the wee hours of the morning with one damn good story to tell, so Varric forgives him, can't wait to start writing his next installment actually. It's sure to be a bestseller at this rate.

 _Funny_ , he thinks as he side-eyes that big, hairy ox, _that most of Ferelden's heroes are all women_. Well, all the _important_ ones anyway. Maric the fuckin' Saviour ain't got shit on the Inquisitor, in his most humble opinion, and, as far as he's concerned, Loghain kneels before the Warden daily, night, and ever so rightly. Shit, he feels like a taking a knee right here, right now, but his tender pride won't really permit it ( _thankfully_ ).

Hawke catches his eye over the sea of celebration, and concern, and has the balls to smile. Well, it isn't really a smile. More of a smirk, that cocky son of a blighted nugfucker. He looks like death warmed twice over, but, hey, how many guys stumble out of the literal Fade after battling hellspawn for weeks, and actually live to tell the tale? Apparently, only one. Varric snorts, then, doesn't bother to stop the laughter the comes rupturing out of his chest like a glittering vein of lyrium. When Loghain's shrewd gaze falls on him, Varric shrugs.

"Fuckin' figures that guy would find a way out of that shithole," he says in lieu of anything else because nothing else would really do.

"Do that often, does he?" An earnest question from the Warden in that prim, Highever accent. Varric didn't really notice it (which is a testimony to his own exhaustion) before, but she's drop dead gorgeous in that I-Can-Kill-You-With-My-Bare-Hands sort of way. Though her teeth are a little crooked, and her nose has clearly been broken more than once, her grey eyes are wide, and bright, and her hair is the most stunning shade of orange Varric has ever seen in his life. The dusting of freckles would be a cute touch if she didn't look perpetually pissed off. Taken, too, Varric observes as he follows the line of Loghain's arm, hand placed firmly at the small of her back. He really shouldn't be surprised, but he is a little bit. Wonders idly if Loghain ever recalls the edge of the blade that she held to his neck while they're entwined in the dark of the night. Or, maybe the light of day. Who is he to judge? No one, that's who.

"Warden, you've got no idea."

"I think I might," she responds, full mouth curving into a knowing grin, and Loghain chuckles, which really throws Varric because he expected all these fine fellows to be serious as the grave, but there's nothing to be had but laughter, and smiles. Well, the Inquisitor looks a touch uncomfortable, but, by rights, Hawke should be deader than dead. Hawke doesn't seem bothered, at all by it, really, but Varric knows him too well to know it's anything other than a front. Hawke laughs, and it's a big, bold sound right from his gut. Varric knows that to be true, watches as Hawke touches her shoulder with lingering fingers, places a light kiss upon her flushed cheek while Cullen looks on sullenly. It's all very chaste for Varric's taste, but he might write about it sometime. Heroes falling in, and out of love. It could make for a bestseller. Especially after all the hype over the Inquisition. Not to mention the two people( _lovers_ , he wonders, and he does _wonder_ , though he doesn't really have to) standing next to him. Now, _those two_ , they're the stuff of legends, and wouldn't he love to be the one to get that story ?

"So," he begins casually after he takes a long pull from his mug, "are you two, yanno…?"

They look at each other, but say nothing. Neither of them looks particularly confused by his line of question, but maybe Darkspawn bashing effects to brain in yet unheard of ways.

"Do you two, yanno…?" He gestures so elaborately, and so wildly that he almost knocks over Krem's pint. The Charger looks unperturbed. "Have, yanno, you ever…?" He's is trying his hand at polite civility, and failing quite spectacularly, at that. Well, there's a first time for everything, and this is certainly his last.

"Have we ever, what, had a good pair of shoes? Seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have we ever licked a lamp post in winter? Do we polish the foot stones? Roll our oats? Tap the midnight still? Forge the moaning statue? Buck the _forbidden_ horse? Does he don my velvet hat? You know, I once had a Duke ask me if he like to tie me up, and ride me backwards in that blasted armor! Why is _that_ the most talked about thing in all of Ferelden, and half of Orlais?" That last question is, of course, directed to her paramour, and he chooses to remain silent. He does, however, look rather amused by her excessive use of euphemisms. "Just once I'd like a polite _how-do-you-do_ , or _what was it like slaying a blighted Archdemon and saving the_ world _,_ or _so, what've you been up to the last seven years_. "

"Andraste's ass, Warden, I was just-"

" _Asking_. I _know_. That's all anyone ever does. 'Course, it's never anything important, _and_ -"

Loghain's hand brushes her shoulder, and she falls silent, face twisting with emotions Varric can't quite name. Krem looks vaguely uncomfortable as he pretends to be particularly engrossed with a rather uninteresting floorboard at his feet.

"It seems I've grown rather cantankerous in my dotage." It's as close to an apology as Varric's getting out of her, and he waves a hand dismissively. "I think I'll be excusing myself now. You gentlemen enjoy yourselves vigorously."  
And with that, she slips out of view, and Loghain shakes his head.

"You gonna follow her, or what," Varric wonders, and does not quite realize he has spoke aloud until Loghain's sharp gaze nearly cuts him in two. Shit. He knows

"Or what," is the gruff, murmured response as Loghain follows her quietly. Krem snorts, shaking his head into his ale.

"Got 'im whipped, don't she?" Krem asks, arching a brow over in Varric's direction.

Varric isn't so sure about that one really.


End file.
